


Dreamcatcher

by viroqu



Category: Divinity: Original Sin (Video Games)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Friendship, Gen, If we are being honest, Magical Dreaming, Strategic Use of the Scholar Tag to Infodump, implied PTSD, perfectly balanced as all things should be, the crack leads to angst which leads to fluff, the one in which i make up elven culture as we go, there are no therapists in Rivellon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 21:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20021635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viroqu/pseuds/viroqu
Summary: In a rented room of a cold and noisy inn, there slept an elf. It was a nasty, dirty, humid, flea-infested shack in an equally rancid, ugly, soggy, magister-infested backwater town. It was Driftwood, and Driftwood and its void-forsaken tavern were, as far as Iktomi was concerned, the nearest thing he and his assorted group of dangerous fugitives had resembling a “home.”-Ifan has trouble sleeping at night.





	1. The Impossible Forest

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> This is my first fic and I'm not an native English speaker, so any advice, specially with the grammar, would be much appreciated. Also, comments are more than welcome.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr in both my main viroqu.tumblr.com and in sourcehound.tumblr.com, my dos2 inspiration blog.

In a rented room of a cold and noisy inn, there slept an elf. It was a nasty, dirty, humid, flea-infested shack in an equally rancid, ugly, soggy, magister-infested backwater town. It was Driftwood, and Driftwood and its void-forsaken tavern were, as far as Iktomi was concerned, the nearest thing he and his assorted group of dangerous fugitives had resembling a “home.”

The Red Prince might had voiced those same thoughts repeatedly every day since they arrived about four days ago on a stolen talking ship from Fort Joy, the loveliest prison camp this side of Rivellon. But from where Iktomi was metaphorically standing? This human-sized bed in which his feet hung out might as well be family now.

To be fair, both the Prince and he were desert dwelling people so there they had their excuse when they wanted to complain about the gods-awful weather.

But never mind the horrors of the day—though they were many nowadays—because at that very moment, it was night. And night was the only time of the day they could take a break.

So, you would understand the frustration Iktomi was feeling when he simply would not fall asleep.

Here from the leftmost side of the room he could see the beds of the rest of the party and its occupants. In the furthest one laid the Red Prince under a mountain of blankets to keep the heat in. Then, there was an empty bed belonging to Sebille, who had apparently shed away the need for rest a long time ago because nobody had ever seen her go to sleep and no matter how early it was, she always was the first one up. And the last bed, next to him, was Ifan’s. Ifan, while dormant, wore a peaceful expression on his face that was absent during his waking hours. Or at least, that was the case while the man wasn’t caught in a dream, for the only inconvenient thing of sleeping next to Ifan was that during the night—as he came to learn while they camped—the man moved around a lot, and would occasionally talk during his sleep. Ifan alternated between common and elven language; though, without context, the words—and sometimes sentences—he said were not ones Iktomi could make sense of.

On the other hand, being Ifan’s neighbor had unexpected perks.

Ifan, maybe because of all the dreaming he did, was a light sleeper. As was Iktomi. He could empathize with being assailed while unconscious. Both sweet visions and nightmares take their toll on the dreamers if they came without moderation. So, they, more frequent than not, would coincide in the numerous times they woke during the night.

And ever since being gifted the spirit eyes, the Godwoken have been able to perfectly see in the dark. This had resulted in an impromptu game Ifan and him ended up playing until they felt the need to sleep again: staring contests.

The first time, Iktomi turned to the other side of his bed and met Ifan’s gaze; who was staring with empty eyes at some unknown point in space. When they looked, neither of them tried to avoid the resulting eye contact.

What followed was a pause that could have become just an awkward moment had Ifan not lift his right eyebrow quizzically. In response, Iktomi had lifted his left eyebrow, mirroring the expression. Ifan, slightly amused from what Iktomi could see, would pull an unexpected move that would change everything forever. Ifan lifted his right eyebrow again and proceeded to wiggle it up and down and up and down and then suddenly, he transferred the momentum of the right eyebrow to his left one, wiggling it once.

After that life-changing event, whenever one of them would wake up they would turn to face the other and see if each other’s fated rival was ready to duel once again. Sometimes the game would be imitating the eyes and eyebrows movement of the one who woke up first, sometimes it would be a stare-off and the one who smiled first admitted defeat. Ifan had whispered to him more than once in mock offense “Cheater!” when Iktomi made him snort after polymorphing his eyebrows to form a waving, wiggling unibrow or growing hair all over his face while not breaking eye contact. The games would end only after the match had been settled, then, one of them would turn back smiling to face the other side of the pillow. It would be assumed then that the other had regained their will to sleep once more.

But this time, Ifan was slumbering uncharacteristically still and Iktomi was alone in the dark.

Pouting in the shadows, Iktomi thought about the last few days, for there laid the origin or the _source_ —if one feels particularly punny—of many inconveniences, including his increasing withdrawal of beauty sleep. Because ever since the Godwoken had deepened their link to the source—with the help of the recently re-defunct Mordus—they had been dealing with some side effects. Meistr Silva had reassured them that it was common for source adepts developing their talents to have their bodies slowly adapting to the new energy. All of them manifested it differently at seemingly random times, each in their own way: the Red Prince was incapable of not garnering attention, his presence overflowing and overwhelming the essence of anything in his vicinity; when she walked, Sebille left translucent afterimages of herself lingering in the air, frozen in time; and Ifan…

Oh boy, did Ifan had it spectacularly _bad_. Like that one time he tried to summon Afrit and only brought the posterior _half_ of an unknown cow from who-knows-where, or that one time he sneezed loudly and a very displeased, very unbound, very _big_ incarnate had appeared; or the most recent one, when he attempted to call on his soul-wolf while fighting an ambush of voidwoken on a beach and he succeeded in opening a rift to a domain of darkness from where the _most_ particular sounds came out.

How could Iktomi describe them?

If the natural order of the world was a beautiful symphony where every part of creation has its own place in the harmony, then whatever the void Ifan had summoned was the equivalent of dragging your nails through a chalkboard. Even as the portal laid closed, the… _something_ —or its horrific echoes—apparently was still trying to carve new creases into their brains by shrieking alone. Bearing it no longer, the mystic channeled his source and employed a dome of protection to repel its influence until it finally quieted down, leaving a very disgruntled team and a particularly sickly-looking lone wolf.

Fun times.

Iktomi on the other hand, had to admit that, while completely infuriating, his talents had yet to become life-threatening. Invisible to regular people, Iktomi's source spread in the air as if he had grown tendrils, long and curious, around his body and head. They would outstretch and gently poke and feel their surroundings, and when they did, the mystic could feel in his skin the texture of the thing touched. It was driving him absolutely mental.

The worst part was when one of his tendrils caught up to a person. In that moment, Iktomi would immediately experience whatever the other was feeling with personal intensity. Whether that was an emotion, like cheer or anger, or a sensation, like dizziness or drunkenness.

Which you know, it’s less than ideal when you sleep on top of a tavern.

So, there he was, laying down in bed at who-knows-what in the morning, focusing in _not_ magically feel whatever is that moist thing in the room and sensing the minutes of precious, precious sleep escaping with each passing moment.

This internal diatribe though, served only to distract himself from the concern of being of little use the next day, when they would march to unknown territory with his teammates counting on him and his split-second decision making. And this makes him feel something ugly creeping inside his heart, something he can’t do away with, foul and slippery like a slug.

Iktomi decided then, to take a more serious approach for treating his insomnia.

The elf flipped his pillow to reach the marginally colder side, stretched his arms and legs and laid completely still with his eyes closed. Then, he begun the deep breathing exercises learned a long time ago, when he was but a wee child just beginning his training with his clan elders.

Now that he was in a more relaxed state of mind, Iktomi slowly begun to direct his excess of source into his body by merging it with his breath. After a minute or two of this, Iktomi reckoned it was time to get in trance.

*

Dreamwalking was an ancient technique that elven mystics taught traditionally to those who would one day become spiritual leaders and guides themselves. Iktomi had put himself in a deep trance where he could lucid dream in an extreme life-like detail. Traditionally, it was a venerated skill which let elves such as him to commune with spirits directly by making a middle ground between the mundane and the intangible, or to heal ailing minds afflicted by illness or profound emotional pain.

But it also had other uses. One could, for example, imagine a comfortable place for the mind to reside for an indefinite period of time if one’s reality was unappetizing. On the other hand, because a hypnotic state was not quite the same as sleeping, putting too much effort in the design of the fantasy would end up in Iktomi exhausting himself just as if he had tossed and turned all night. No, that wouldn’t do. If he was going to dreamwalk, he had to choose a place he knew so well that his unconsciousness could fill it without straining itself in coming up with the details.

So Iktomi chose to inhabit a memory. One before magisters, divines and gods had come to take him away.

*

He enters the forest. Except it wasn’t supposed to be a forest.

The soil of the lush, green, tall oaks is the hot desert sand from back home. He looks around but he can’t read his surroundings: the trees of the impossible forest are placed arbitrarily, without the patterns that constitute the natural world.

There is a strange tension in the air, like one which precedes a storm. His skin prickles at the sensation surrounding his body, as though hair by hair he is being pulled inside the woods, and an ache of foreign sorrow beats somewhere deep inside his own chest. As if a second heart now belonged to him. That’s settles it. This is not Iktomi’s dream, this foreign emotion that apparently manifested from thin air belongs, indeed, to another.

But who? The _accidental_ nature of his intrusion shows that the obstacles between him and whoever is the host were next to none. An educated guess would point at his three companions sleeping in the same room as him.

But he won’t find out by staying still.

The sun shines warmly through the many leaves, and soft patches of grass begin to grow as Iktomi walks without any direction in mind. Birds that he can never see sing their songs and deer that are only silhouettes run in the distance.

Even if this is his first lucid dream since they began mastering source, it fazes him none. Unexpected developments are to be expected; he says to himself. Confident in his years of training.

Iktomi closes his eyes. Taking slow, deep breaths he steadily clears his mind of thought, letting his surroundings pour sounds, smells and sensations inside of him. He’s trying for the dream to recognize him not as a foreign object but as another part of itself. Just as transparent glass can become invisible to the viewer by looking through it, so can an outsider insert themselves into the fabric of a dream by suspending momentarily their own individuality. Let the vision and its flow move you into position.

Noises beyond the ones of moving leaves arrive to him from a distance that seems to close itself by the second. The forest shifts for him, and with it, the sound grows louder and louder until the recognition hits him and a sickeningly familiar feeling embraces him. It’s the sound of a crying child.

He opens his eyes and sees _It_.

No longer lurking and just a few metres ahead, a shapeless shadow, black as the night and of considerable size, ripples in a fixed post. Over endless clusters of tiny white flowers, thatched clover and dandelions, _It_ looks like if someone had torn a hole in space itself.

He must be careful, turning a mind into a battlefield can make the victim’s psyche even more susceptible to the influence of the nightmare. Especially since the dreamer hasn’t yet been instructed how to defend itself from an invasion or at least mentally prepared for the disquieting visions they could be subjected to.

They both focus on one another warily, but neither of them makes their move. It’s a stalemate, thinks Iktomi. If he can’t expel the spirit with a direct approach, then perhaps he can close the entrance that allowed _It_ in. Nightmares are cowardly things after all, confront them, look at them in the eye and watch them scurry away back into their holes.

But he shouldn’t go prying deeper into the unconscious mind of anybody—much less if it’s indeed one of a friend’s—without their permission.

Iktomi closes his eyes once more and begins to detail the room where he last was on the waking world. By using the strenuous effort of recalling the physical world, he will force his mind to break the trance and wake up. _It’s a rectangular room, there are four beds, each one with a chest in front of them and on the top of the leftmost bed there’s me_. Me. And the word spreads around his body like electricity. _The me on the bed was born twenty-five years ago, he has dark curly hair and skin colored like wood. Both the floor, the ceiling and the walls are made of wood._ Iktomi moves his toes and he can feel the scratchy sheets on them. _Underneath the wooden floor there is a tavern, and underneath the tavern is the Undertavern. And in the Undertavern there was a spider-lady and the spider-lady was looking for the perfect ki—_

Iktomi opens his eyes to their rented room. It is yet very dark outside and Iktomi, struggling to win the fight against his treacherous lids to keep his eyes open, feels little rest in his body. Meaning he wasn’t _literally_ minding somebody else’s business for very long.

The air inside is cold, even when the windows have already been closed a while ago. Though there are still many weeks till autumn can officially be called such, the grasshoppers’ song turns itself into a hum under the ever-waning heat and Iktomi has seen a gathering of swallows already flying across and away from the yellow fields. Summer in Driftwood has already ended.

He turns his head to the right to try and make out who of his companions could be possibly be nesting a night terror in their sleep.

The most logical choice would be Ifan, who is making uncomfortable faces while he tosses around; unless Sebille’s… _skin condition_ now turns her invisible while unconscious, she seems like a safe choice to discard because she is not to be seen in her bed and the Red Prince, currently drooling on his pillow, most likely has some degree of dreaming training to fend himself while asleep. He _is_ a lizard after all.

Iktomi straightens up and proceeds to walk out of bed and crouches right beside the sleeping Ifan. Conjuring calm feelings and images, he sends those energies through his body to his hand. Gently, Iktomi covers Ifan’s brow with one of them and with an equally gentle—but nonetheless firm voice—he says, “Ifan, wake up.”

Ifan abruptly opens his eyes, but the soothing energies from his palm have placated any shock beforehand so any sudden reflexes are accounted for. He is waking a former soldier and a present contract killer, when all it’s said and done, and he would rather keep all his teeth on the inside of his mouth.

“Tomi,” mumbles Ifan, still dazed. And while Iktomi can sense the agitation of the man in the quick rise and fall of his chest, the Lone Wolf doesn’t move away from his touch.

The elf removes his hand but keeps the studious look on him. It’s a strange expression on him, thinks Ifan. Iktomi looks much more mature without one of his permanent, easy smiles for which he has come to know him. It’s easier now to notice the way Iktomi eyes look when examining the world. A piercing gaze, fixed and focused. He recognizes that look, how could he not? It’s his own, it’s Sebille’s, it’s even the Red Prince’s when he behaves less than a monarch and more like a general who has survived multiple assassination attempts. What they share is the steely eyes that have seen too much and now won’t longer look away from what’s in front of them.

He reminisces about how the peculiar elf went picking them one by one to come along with him. How when Ifan shook his hand, hard, the skinny lad matched his grip, tight as a vise. _The darkness knows the night_.

Finally breaking the silence, Iktomi asks, “Were you having a nightmare?”

Ifan frowns, giving him a quizzical look, then nods. “I was. Yes,” he eventually replies, then adds, “How did you know?”

Iktomi closes his eyes and draws a deep breath, “Long story. Get out of bed and walk with me,” he draws himself to the impressive full height of the elves as he yawned and stretched himself. “I’ll tell you as we go.”

*

“So, you are a dreamwalker. _Theneravhen_. An intermediary between people and spirits.”

The inn’s wooden deck has been getting colder each night that passes, but it’s one of the few places in the tavern that allows for some manner of personal space between its patrons. Besides, from there one can see the rapturous, threshing sea waves and the sharp stars both, so it kind of evens out in Iktomi’s opinion.

“I am, indeed,” Iktomi said with what he hoped hadn’t looked like a grimace. His duties in elven culture being really bellow in his list of preferred topics of conversation. “When you lived with my people, did you ever watch one work?”

“Only once or twice through Mother Melati, personally,” Ifan murmurs. “Though I know what it entails and why it’s usually done privately.”

“Somebody’s mind…” Ifan muses, “it’s a delicate and personal affair to meddle with.”

Cold sea breeze passes where they stand and Iktomi inhales pleased the hint of salt and the fresh air both. Ifan watches him closely, his eyes lingering on the shape of his smile, sweet and pensive.

But the smile twists itself into something sad. Melancholic. And Ifan feels just a little bit guilty. “While I was dreaming… I reached out to you; it was an accident but…”

He pauses, staring intently at the wooden fence that he’s supporting himself with, maybe hoping the inanimate object can find the words he’s looking for. “I’m sorry, it’s what I mean.” His gaze lowers even further, long corkscrew curls cascading down and Ifan’s reminded of the graceful weeping willow with its long, slender leaves.

“ _Shadow Raven_ ,” Ifan raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, “you aren’t going soft on me, are you?”

This takes a now wide-eyed Iktomi by such surprise that the mage can’t help himself but to giggle out loud.

There it is that smile again, thinks Ifan. Good.

Ifan drags Iktomi close by the shoulder. Lowering him enough to roughly tousle his curly hair. “No! Ifan! C’mon!” protests Iktomi, making absolutely no attempt to free himself.

Ifan releases him with a sharp grin and watches the elf fix his hair to its original volume while muttering about “evil, terrible bearded men.”

“We’re good, relax. We all have been suffering… incontinence problems since we started getting serious on this Godwoken business. Besides,” Ifan finally interjects, fondness clear in his voice, “I can’t get rid of you just yet, after all. Without you to stop them, maybe Sebille and his royal majesty will finally try to tear each other’s throats before the magisters catch them.”

“My money is on Sebille.”

“Oh, absolutely. She’d eat him alive and wear his skin as a pair of shoes. Or,” Ifan continues, “what’s worse, maybe without you to bother he will actually start talking to _me_.”

Iktomi slaps his leg at that one and cackles. “He’s not _that_ bad when he stops putting on airs, which admittedly is most of the time but still.”

“I’ll take your word on that one,” finishes Ifan.

“But,” Iktomi adds, clearing his voice, “that’s not all I wanted to say.”

“Hmm,” hums Ifan, “then what was it?”

“You said you were having a nightmare, didn’t you?”

“I guess, you could call it that,” Ifan says, a bit embarrassed to have confessed so easily back in the room, “It wasn’t a nice dream, that’s for sure.”

“Do these kinds of dreams come frequently,” and he pauses, “Ifan?”

Ifan thinks about the times they camped back in the Joy and the ways he shook and turn and woke while they were side by side. Ifan then thinks about the many games that they, two people with too many memories, played in the dark to avoid the thoughts that roared in the silence of the night.

“I reckon we both know the answer to that,” and there is no feeling discernible in the way he says it.

“Yes,” Iktomi says quietly, “I guess we do.” He lifts his gaze from the ground, then adds, “I didn’t see what you were dreaming when I arrived, but what I saw was a dark spirit dwelling on your mind.”

Unfazed, Ifan gestures him to go on.

“They are nuisances that feed and thrive on people’s suffering. It’s easy for them to nest inside one’s brain when it’s unconscious and can’t fight back, manifesting themselves as a rush of negative thoughts.”

“Well then doctor, how much do I have left, then?” a sardonic Ifan says, crossing his arms again now to the level of his broad chest.

“Small ones aren’t dangerous unless they keep feeding and growing,” having lifted his right hand, Iktomi wrapped a curl around his finger and twirled back-and-forth. “Then they become debilitating, causing exhaustion and moodiness till they produce breakdowns, panic attacks, intrusive thoughts or…” and as he trails on, he stretches the lock in his index finger until, suddenly, he let's go, and the elastic spiral bounces to its original position, “even more dangerous situations.”

Iktomi does a barely perceivable pause to inhale and Ifan winces internally, preparing to get his proverbial ear chewed off.

“Traumas and the such provide excellent entrances for them to crawl in. Healthy minds can fend off negative thoughts well enough. But because negativity prospers in negativity, it becomes a matter of time for even more of these hurts waiting in the air to take a dip in the unconscious of the victim or the people around the afflicted.”

“So, what do you suggest to get this mind parasite business sorted with?” interrupts Ifan, knowing fully well if the scholar’s tendencies of missing the forest for the trees when he went off on a tangent.

“Huh? Oh, right. I don’t know what comes first in your case,” he explains, “if it’s your nightmares what’s attracting the spirit or if it’s the spirit the one causing the dreaming. But it’s only going to get worse from here, if unsupervised. So, what I suggest is to let me walk in your dream and drive away that vermin.”

Ifan’s heart skips a beat. One thing is sharing experiences with another person, and another very different is building a theater with front-row seats to watch the worst experiences in somebody’s lifetime. And yet…

Iktomi has proven himself to be a good man time and time again to both Ifan himself and an ever-increasing number of other people. His loyalty is indisputable, his skills on the frontlines undoubtable, and, when all it’s said and done, Iktomi was undeniably the heart of the team. Without his mediations, Ifan doubted that their alliance of convenience between him and the other two members of their squad—all of them loners with personal scores to settle—would have lasted long. Hell, would have been formed _at all_. And, while nobody would ever say it, hasn’t it been Iktomi’s choices the one they have stick with, after all?

“How can I know… that you won’t poke around where I wouldn’t want?”

Iktomi opens his mouth then promptly closes. Turning away from him he taps his index finger on his chin. Think, think, think, muses Ifan inwardly.

Facing him again, but not with an entirely convinced expression, Iktomi proposes, “Maybe after I do it, we could have Sebille lick me and she can confirm to you?”

But before Ifan can answer, he replies to himself, “Hmm, though I guess that would mean she’d be seeing your dreams too, wouldn’t it?”

Iktomi huffs, then his eyes open a bit signaling the dawn of a new idea.

“What if we make an exchange? For every dream or memory I see, you have the right to see one mine,” he says with a satisfied expression.

He catches Ifan with his mouth a straight line, lifting one of his eyebrows. “Sebille then could lick me and confirm that was real, if you want to make sure. I don’t… really have a problem sharing anything if it’s for a cause like this.”

And before he can add more, Ifan finally interjects, “Alright. We have a deal.”

Iktomi comically exhales a long, loud breath. “It’s nothing that I haven’t told you before, anyways,” Ifan further comments, “I was dreaming about the day my parents were killed by bandits, while we were on the road.”

*

Iktomi opens his eyes to the limits between his and Ifan’s consciousness. Where the desert ends and the woods begin is too tenuous to properly state, but, as he rushes in, the previously adopted grief only beats stronger and stronger.

He knows the imaginary forest could go on forever, so he runs and runs until this feeling of loss becomes so loud, he can barely think of anything else. When it seems like it won’t grow anymore, Iktomi closes his eyes, vacates his mind of his own thoughts and breathes deeply and slowly, letting his senses do the rest.

Recognizing a pull, Iktomi let's gravity change its center and now he falls and falls into his left side, without ever without ever moving his feet from the green grass.

Opening his eyes, images slide past his view in a fleeting fashion. His vision is fragmented between leaves and branches, like a furtive animal, and in those gaps of light Iktomi sees a small caravan, armed men with wicked smiles. Sound appears as well when screams that precede blood on the ground are heard loud and clear. It takes no time for other sensations to overwhelm him too. The primeval smell of soil, footsteps getting closer, the inside of a wagon, green sparks floating in the air, growling sounds, a gaping jaw, the buzz of flies, the heat of a midsummer’s day, green dyed crimson, the sound of a child crying.

The world stops moving.

Many bodies lie discarded on the dusty road. Some of them have deep bite marks on their throats. Red, canine footprints are imprinted along the way, but Afrit is nowhere to be seen.

Some meters behind, walking down the road, Iktomi can make out a thin, long chasm cutting along the road like a scar. Iktomi steps closer to see it and when he peeks through the edge, his stomach drops. It’s not steep, it’s _abyssal_. And no light can illuminate its black depths.

So this is where the bastard's been worming from.

Wasting no time, Iktomi polymorphs spider legs unto his back. With a form that can deftly climb, he effortlessly spins thick strings of web like a suture across opposite sides of the chasm. When the illusion of a surgical stitch is accomplished, Iktomi pulls from one of the threads and closes the gap. Inside a dream, one can be much more spectacular on problem-solving than on the waking world, but he chooses against it out of respect for Ifan’s psyche, settling with just impressive for now.

With that accounted for, Iktomi rushes back to the grisly scene which brought him. He can’t just cut the link and break trance right now, doing so in such an intimate, vulnerable place is like practicing surgery in an old battle wound, a misstep could cause a dehiscence, rupturing it and leaving it just as debilitating as it was before the healing process. The best way to proceed is to be a part of the dream until it naturally ends and with it, the connection.

All wagons look ordinary, but only one has a dead body right in the back. Pausing just for a second to gather his wits, Iktomi gives a determined first step and the sound of muffled weeping gets clearer. Carefully, he opens the curtains that separates the inside and outside of the merchant wagon.

The sunlight enters the space barely, allowing Iktomi to see just so—between the barrels and boxes brimming with spices—a small boy weeping on his knees.

His hand wants to reach out to him but Iktomi refrains from doing so.

“Hey,” Iktomi, with the softest voice he can manage, finally interjects. “Are you hurt somewhere?”

The child lifts his head slowly and warily and gods, he is so young. So very young.

Ifan’s silence is interrupted periodically by gasping sobs.

“It’s okay. It’s alright now,” says Iktomi in a voice that is both his and from another’s, mature and feminine. The original rescuer, he deduces. “It’s over now. You are safe.”

Someone hesitant could have found the growling noises that appear to be just behind the elf’s nape daunting. But if Iktomi one day finds himself bested it’ll not be by a bad dream, killed with mere morning light.

“I won’t hurt you, I promise,” Iktomi continues, “I came here to help.”

The child Ifan stares at him with big redden eyes, completely paralyzed. Rigid, like a deer who has seen its hunter. And Iktomi knows that this right here, was the last time that Ifan ever allowed himself to be prey.

There are still quiet tears running across the young Ifan’s face, but his nose is less runny, and his breath has gotten calmer and more even. He starts to straighten up his shoulders and back to meet Iktomi’s gaze.

“Can I come in?” says the elf, though Ifan doesn’t protest nor answer. The animal noises behind him have settled on slow but loud breathing.

Gently does Iktomi steps inside, crouching as he does. There is still about a fathom that separates them, and he stops right there.

“Do you want to come with me?” says the elf. His smile is tender and he’s extending his arm and holding his open, pleading hand in front of the small kid. He can only come so close, Iktomi knows. The rest of the distance can only be bridged by Ifan’s own will.

A moment passes while Ifan tremulously lifts himself to take the hand. Step by step, he draws closer to the elf until they stand face to face and hand in hand. Ifan looks into his eyes and Iktomi holds his gaze, and just when those olive eyes threaten to start crying again, Iktomi embraces him.

“There, there,” Iktomi whispers just above Ifan’s head. How many years yet for gray to grow here? How many till his face and hands harden and earn their scars? “You must have been so frightened. I know I would have, too.”

Ifan shakes under his arms, and maybe that’s his way of showing that he is listening. “You were very, very brave. You can rest now,” Iktomi says softly, “I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

Iktomi closes his eyes and lets the warmth between his arms and chest spread through him. The cart sways gently and despite the bonnet of the wagon, the sun shines bright on his back. In the distance he can make out the sound of a wolf howling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Addendum:
> 
> *I borrowed dalish words for the elvish in the fic. "Theneravhen" is a composite word meaning "people of dreams."
> 
> *Normally I thread very carefully in fics where people write in their OCs. But DOS2 has a very small cast, and I don't ship anyone with anybody so... an introduction to our Godwoken.
> 
> *Iktomi is a Scholar and a Mystic. With a mod I also added the Jester tag because of flavor text and because I like to have fun.
> 
> *His backstory could be summarized as such: he's a scion who survived the deathfog bombing when he was a child and was rescued and raised for his own protection in one of the most experimental magical investigation institutions in the continent.


	2. Interlude I

In the main dining room of his royal residence, many long tables were disposed to accommodate the usual amount of one or two hundred lizards and other guests that dined near the Prince’s table. Together, the vertical rows of furniture near the Prince’s horizontal sit gave the illusion that the ensemble delineated one big rectangular table, with his majesty of course at the head of the whole.

Sitting on his throne, the Red Prince felt satisfied. He was the monarch of all he surveyed and far beyond what the twilight light bathed under its radiance. He closed his eyes to listen to the new melodies composed daily in his honor and delighted himself on the sublime singing of the lute, the sweet whispers of the flutes and the telluric echoes of the powerful drums. The perfumes of the room melted deliciously with the aroma of the dishes served this evening. The silk that caressed his skin, as if he carried the breeze wherever he went, was only matched in touch by the comfortable, soft furs that dressed him—each one made of the hides of creatures that no longer could be found anywhere in the world. And each time he opened his eyes the marble floors and the gilded pillars—even the silver sparks studded in his guards’ helms—seemed brighter every time.

Placid and comfortably seated, the Red Prince—eyes shut, fingers tapping the airborne rhythm—concluded that yes, everything was fine and in order and yes, all was beauty around him, and all was well in the world.

A raucous and unexpected laugh, now familiar through the daily exposure, shook him off his state of reverie.

Much to his dismay, a reminder of his everyday burdens once again interrupted his meticulous fantasies. The coil-haired elf begun an improvised dance with one of the servants as he walked his way, making them twirl before releasing their hands and breaking away. He spoke something unintelligible to the small group that had begun watching their encounter and provoked a burst of laughter from the small crowd. Resuming his way once more, Iktomi dexterously stole small mouthfuls of the guests’ plates when they were distracted without even so much as slowing his step.

The Red Prince started rubbing slow circles in the right side of his temple.

He finally had the opportunity to address Iktomi when he got close enough to his throne to try to get a better view of the sword swallowers. “Why are you becoming such a regular guest inside my imaginations, pray tell?”

One of the performers, a tall cobalt lizard, was now attempting to swallow six swords while juggling fire. It was a very impressive show of skill, thought Iktomi. Another thing that was impressive was that the Prince had been able to tell him apart from all the hundreds of dream-people that were currently running around. But Iktomi should have assumed that when one’s culture pays so much attention to the oneiric world then their people must be good at it.

“Is this how you unwind in the evenings, your majesty?” asked the elf, pushing a long strand of dark hair away from his eyes. A gesture that the prince finds himself watching too intently. “So hectic!” he exclaims full of joy, light in his eyes.

There’s a question hanging in the air that rhymes with “Were your days so lively back home too?” but Iktomi doesn’t make it and the prince doesn’t answer it.

The entertainer, having digested her desired number of swords, was now tossing and catching two black cobras instead. If all lizards dream with this pomp, then it’s no wonder they have an entire social class dedicated to it.

“Hmph,” huffed the Red Prince, tastefully indignant,” you didn’t answer my question.”

The lizard took another good look at the tall brown elf. Iktomi wore an exquisite golden turban with an eye-sized emerald in the middle. A brooch in the shape of a peacock feather held the gemstone in place. He didn’t know if it was the respectable clothes the ones that gave him that sheer presence that the rest of the illusions lacked or if it was something else.

The Red Prince thought that outfitted like that, in embroidered aureate robes and matching sirwal, the elf made a fine figure. He supposed that even when he became Divine, there was nothing wrong with another court wizard.

Iktomi turned to look at the prince and eyed him curiously. Finally, with a mischievous smile he said, “If his majesty hadn’t wanted me here, I wouldn’t be here, would I? Besides, I just got lost on my way to the belly-dancers,” and lifting a golden, bejeweled chalice he took a sip of what the elf thought might probably be a millennia-aged wine. “Would you care to join me on my way?”

The Red Prince “hmphed” again, but this time amusedly. “What an impertinent suggestion, you skinny, irreverent twig.”

Iktomi lifted his hand to his brow in mock dismay and offense.

“Fine. Let us go at once,” said the Red Prince, and he lazily stood up from his seat. His ornate tail, big like a python, uncurled with swift, elegant motions.

As they walked down his halls, the Red Prince noticed that when the orange and pinks of the—eternal, made-up—twilight sky illuminated the gardens of his palace, the jasmines seemed even more in bloom and the air more perfumed by their fragrance.

Indeed, he thought to himself, all was beauty around him, and all was well in the world.


End file.
